Stormborn
by Namikaze Okami
Summary: She was the rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men - Khaleesi, Queen of Meereen, Breaker of Chains, Mhysa, the Unburnt - the Mother of Dragons. In death, she feels the fire of her veins awaken her once more - only with the memories of the life she once lived. (One-Shot)


**Stormborn**

* * *

In her vision of darkness, the soft aura of light came to pass her by. The air was cool and chilled her tingling skin. Black coating her vision, her mind slowly rumbled to the memories of her distant past. Fire. Blood. Bells. Betrayal. How bitter she felt, to sense the recent sting of treachery upon her breast from her lover. The dagger plunged into her heart evoked many unsaid emotions, each one angering her more and more.

_Why, why?_

She loved him. She was certain she did, and she was certain he returned her affections – that was, until he discovered his familial blood-tie to her ancient House. House of the Dragon – feared by all – loved by few. Fire and blood marked her existence as well as that of her predecessors. She came to liberate Westeros and its Seven Kingdoms from its tyrannical rule of the illegitimates, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. She was their savior, she was certain. The Iron Throne was hers, waiting for its one true heir to sit upon its seat of blades and rule the lands with dignity and power. All her life she stood in the maniacal shadow of her brother Viserys, victim to his madness and his fits of outrage while he schemed and plotted unsuccessfully to make his claim as the rightful King. Was she the rightful King – no, Queen?

The answer was simple – she was a Khaleesi.

She was the Queen of Meereen. The Breaker of Chains. Mhysa. The Unburnt.

The Mother of Dragons.

Stormborn.

The One True Heir to the Iron Throne.

She was born to rule. Unlike her insane excuse for a brother, she had the grace and kindness that was befitting of any ruler – at least, for a time. Beaten and bruised, scratched and groped, she remembered the fear that struck her whenever he would whisper '_Did you want to awaken the Dragon?_' into her trembling heart. Watching him die before her in a pool of molten gold horrified her yet satisfied her all at once – she was finally free from his vicious torment. If he would have lived, she would have been forced to bear his children – as sibling marriage was the gracious tradition of House Targaryen – to keep the waning bloodline pure.

As she lay on the altar of black stone, her silver hair was brittle, her braids breaking with each wind that passed her lifeless husk. Her lips were pale, skin cold and the dagger – its silver hilt still protruding from her breast while she lay in eternal slumber. A burst of fire flowed through her memories as the weight of the dagger vanished into the darkness.

.

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"_Zyhys oñoso jehikagon Aeksiot epi, se gis hen syndrorro jemagon,_"

.

.

The warmth she felt from her lover's glance was all she ever wanted. She would have given anything to see him again – and she already did. Before her eyes, she saw him crumble away into nothing. A once proud and ruthless warrior – reduced to a withering worm by her naïve trust in a witch and her blood-magic. '_Moon of my life_' he would breathe into her, '_My sun, my stars_'. How she longed she could be with him again in the vast Dothraki Grass Sea, their lost son Rhaego at their side – his first grasp at life torn from him so soon as a consequence of her blind trust and desperation. She would give a thousand Iron Thrones for a life with the Khalasaar.

_My children, my children_…

Hatched from her husband's funeral pyre, her three young dragons made their mark in the world, their cries echoing across the Red Wastes at their birth. Tales of their hatching spread far and wide, striking fear into those of King's Landing who feared the return of dragons – and instilling hope in those who sought the removal of the Usurper and his disputed line. The crimson air of the red comet above proved it – her children were prophesized for greatness, and so was she. Black, gold, green – her children's scales gleamed in the desert sun as they journeyed from Qarth to Astapor, to Yunkai, and to Meereen, each of the dragons growing greater in size as the seasons came to pass.

_Dracarys_…

Meereen was her greatest prize – and her greatest failure. She was a liberator, she remembered. She was the Breaker of Chains. Mhysa. She freed the citizens from a ceaseless rule of slavers and lords alike, the ones who crucified children on the road to the great city. Free Cities. Such lies, she remembered. No one was free, no one except the wealthy and the slavers. Liberating the city was no easy task, let alone ruling the city. Her dragons grew restless, untamed, uncontrolled – burning crops, livestock, and anyone unfortunate enough to be close by. The moment that shepherd dropped his charred child at her feet scarred her forever. She did not want to be Queen of the Ashes, she knew from the start. Once her rule seemed to be taking hold, the Sons of the Harpy slaughtered her Unsullied, her Dothraki, her warriors – and nearly killed herself, if not for the sudden appearance of Drogon in the Fighting Pits.

_Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor_…

_A dragon is not a slave_...

Flying upon Drogon's back for the first time was a memory she knew she would never forget. His shining black scales, the crimson coating of his wings, the wind at her back as they soared over the grassy lands that surrounded the bastion of her rule. She felt free – to leave everything behind for all but a moment. She should have mounted his back and flew far beyond the Grass Sea ages ago, she thought. Living an adventurous life free from the constraints of rule was impossible for her now…

.

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"_Zyhys perzys stepagon Aeksio Oño jorepi, se morghultas lys qelitsos sikagon_,"

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.

The salt of the sea was fresh in her senses as they sailed towards the vacant docks of Dragonstone, her birthplace. The sand was wet in her hands, she remembered, yet it felt so familiar all the same. As she tore down the final sigil of Stannis Baratheon, she looked upon her black-stoned castle with violet eyes teary and her heart full of warmth. She was home. Seated upon the great throne in its King's Chambers, she remembered the smooth texture of its carving under her palm, her fingers grazing over its detail as she gave her first commands as the Queen of Dragonstone.

Then she met the wolf.

Her traitor. Her lover. Her King.

As if in a haze, he approached her in her castle pleading for help in the War of the North, the coming winter brisk on the winds as she flew closer towards the Wall. Fire mired the hordes of incoming undead, setting them ablaze across the ice they scrambled upon – all trying to reach the Bastard of Winterfell and his quest for a wright. Boarding onto Drogon's back, she was prepared to embark to shelter – until a cry of death fell upon her ears. Falling from the skies was Viserion – her child. His green scales gleamed in the snowy sun as he plunged to his death below, crashing onto the frozen lake and disappearing into the depths below…

_Viserion_…

She sacrificed one of her dragons for him, for that Bastard who clung to the name Stark. Her child was gone, leaving his brothers to mourn his passing as they cried out upon his absence when she returned. She made a mistake – helping the Bastard was her first fatal blow to her conquest, and she knew deep within her heart. She wished she never met him, never seen his black of hair, his darkened eyes, his kind heart. She desperately wanted to forget the wounds that marked his chest, the feel of his skin against hers as they lay in her warm cabin below deck. She wanted him gone from her memory. His name left a curse upon her breath, its tone boiling her blood as she spoke its words. Aegon. The Song of Ice and Fire, the one who contested her rule of the Iron Throne – the one who never wanted to be crowned King. Although he claimed he would never betray her and steal her claim of Westeros, she knew deep in her fragile heart that it was a lie. A lie, she thought – how foolish to believe in his words of love and protection.

Her mind began to crack at the surface.

The Battle of Winterfell claimed the life of her trusted friend and advisor, the one who devoted the remainder of his life to her – Jorah of House Mormont. As she lit his pyre, she remembered how her hand quivered at the torch that would set his corpse aflame, how her eyes flowed with endless tears at the sight of him in eternal sleep. Her heart was broken.

_Bells_…

Flying over King's Landing as she prepared her conquest, she was dealt with another shocking loss. Before her very eyes as she was atop Drogon's back over the Blackwater, she watched Rhaegal become impaled by dozens of flying metal spears, his screams of pain shrieking through the calm air as he plummeted to his death to the water below. Her screams felt as though she could burn her lungs – her child was gone, another claimed by her enemies and carelessness. Setting the Iron Fleet aflame as she festered in her rage fed into her growing madness, cracking her once kind-hearted exterior into a mess of anger and vengeance.

_Rhaegal_…

What flashed before her memories next erupted her with hatred for the Queen. Cersei. Standing atop the gates of King's Landing, the disputed Queen of House Lannister smiled smugly towards her as her Kingsguard beheaded her last remaining ally – Missandei. '_Dracarys_' were her last words, and she was determined to make them a reality…

_Bells_…

As fire erupted along the Lannister's defenses, the panicking enemies dropped their weapons after the mere sight of her atop Drogon. Perched upon a temple, she remembered the view of the Red Keep in her mind. The bells kept ringing as the fires below burned, the voices of the innocent screaming for their Queen to surrender to the Mother of Dragons.

_Bells_… _Bells_… _Bells_…

Each ring of the burgeoning bells rumbled through her trembling body riddled with pure hatred towards the Queen who murdered her child, her friend – who stood in the way of her ever reaching the Iron Throne. She was unraveling. Broken at the seams, her teeth gnashed as her body arched atop Drogon's back while she cried out a quivered curse upon her ashy lips. They all must burn, she thought. Burn them all, she thought – curse them for all they have done.

With the flap of his massive red wings, Drogon descended upon the streets of King's Landing, engulfing every path of escape in flames and ash as the screams of the smallfolk echoed into the smoky air while they burned alive. By morning, the last of the fires went out, revealing a path of death towards the castle gates. Charred bodies of innocents littered the streets before the Red Keep, the once magnificent castle reduced to a pile of smoldering rubble.

The Queen was dead, and the throne was hers to take.

Vividly, her blackened memories flashed before her once more, echoing in her mind as she felt the warmth engulf her breast as it did when she took her last breath. Before her dark-eyed lover, she stood in his arms as the winter's soft snow softly fell from the clouds above, coating the decayed throne room in a blanket of white. '_Be with me_' she remembered saying to him sweetly, her cheeks warm as she met his glance, '_Be with me_' she pleaded. Her lover's lips met hers at last, enveloping her in his affections. They did it, they won the throne, she remembered thinking to herself. She was to be Queen, and he her obedient consort. She forgave him for his true blood, forgiving her elder brother whom she never had the pleasure of meeting, forgiving the cruel world for such a circumstance.

She felt the sharp twist of the dagger stab through her breast, all of her breath leaving her body in pure disbelief and bewilderment. Unable to speak, she remembered how her legs collapsed under her as he caught her in his arms. Her violet eyes full of enraged shock while the warmth on her breast pooled from betrayal, her mouth quivered breathlessly as she failed to form her last words. She remembered how warm the blood felt as it leaked from her nostrils, pouring into her open mouth as the edge of her lips oozed with crimson.

_The bells, the bells, the bells_…

Jon Snow.

Aegon.

Her murderer, her traitor, her nephew, her lover – a man of many identities. As the black entered her fading vision, she felt the final gasp of breath leave her body as she lay in his shaking arms, his tears hitting the leather detail to her dress. Curse him, she remembered in her thoughts – the rest of her existence going blank as she entered the eternal darkness that awaited her…

She was a Khaleesi. She was the Queen of Meereen. The Breaker of Chains. Mhysa. The Unburnt. The Mother of Dragons.

Stormborn.

She was the Last Dragon.

Now, she was nothing.

.

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"_Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys… Hen morghot, glaeson_."

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Gasping for breath, she heaved on the blackened altar, her lungs longing for air. Her fragile body quivering, she rose from the bed of stone, violet eyes wide and silver hair shining from the torch light around her. Clutching her breast, she felt the carve of her wound with her trembling fingers, the leather surrounding it torn and stained in her blood.

She was alive.

As her breaths eased, she met the gaze of the priestess before her. Kinvara. Her hair was a vibrant red, as was the robe she was clothed in. Within the darkened temple, the priestess stood wide-eyed as she watched the Mother of Dragons awaken. '_Who are you?_' she asked, her orange eyes coated in the aura of the flames.

'_Stormborn_.'


End file.
